I Srunk Shrank Shrinked
by jWatson-Holmes
Summary: Sherlock and John are caught in a terrible situation which leads both of them to become noticeably small. Pocket!Sherlock and Pocket!John
1. Bloody Chemicals!

**Watson_Holmes here. ****I normally post my stories on AO3, so you'll see them there too (but this one isn't there).**

** I don't own Sherlock; it belongs too BBC Worldwide Limited, Hartswood Films, Moffatiss and ACD.**

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**Chapter 1~ Bloody Chemicals**

It wasn't Sherlock's fault the his flatmate just _happened _to stand next by him when he was conducting an experiment of pouring 10% hydrogen peroxide on dead body parts.

It also wasn't his fault when his 'clumsy'(actually disgusted) flatmate decided to disrupt his calculations(along with other experiments) by knocking over his test-tubes and spilling a mass of dangerous chemicals all over the consulting detective and doctor.

It also wasn't his fault that after being drenched by extremely dangerous chemicals, both the consulting detective and doctor were caught in a 'minor' explosion.

Sherlock _was_ the first to regain conscious, but it wasn't really his fault that he woke up finding himself in a mass of... cotton fabric. Also noticeably naked. He tried his best to climb out of his imprisonment, really, climbing out of fabric was a thing now? Sherlock finally managed to stick his head out of the mess, and take a deep breath of air.

Interesting, he had been stuck in a whole bundle of gigantic clothing for a few minutes. His own clothing, along with everything else, was noticeably larger by a great scale.

His thought process was interrupted by the sharp sound of rapid foot steps along with wailing sirens. He quickly identified that the shuffle of clothes next to him was John and quickly(thankfully) grabbed a nearby flannel to cover himself.

"Hurry John!" Sherlock pulled John out of the many(unnecessary) layers, "Lestrade's coming, no time to explain."

The now-small baffled doctor uttered in protest when Sherlock wrapped the rest of the flannel over him. Now it was a chase of _'Mice and Men"_, lovely really, having to run and drag an army doctor a whole two metres across the room. Sherlock managed to reach their destination in record time; maybe he should join the Olympics because he just ran 198 metres within 20 seconds _dragging_ someone with him.

After three minutes and 44 seconds, Lestrade called up his club of idiotic men and women to invade the flat.

Sherlock is horrified that his right of privacy was being interrupted by a couple of idiots, and John is frustrated too much of his current form to even care that their flat was being run over by a parade of idiots. Particularly lead by a certain _'Stupid' Anderson_, who thinks he's the smartest person in the world to even have half a brain cell was already bad enough to describe the stupid idiot.

Oh yes, and whose fault was this? Who exactly was the reason why both Sherlock and John shrunk into five centimetre dolls?

For the first, and the last, time John ever finally hears Sherlock swearing reverently is about the doctor himself.

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DI Lestrade had just barged into an empty flat with scorch marks all over the walls and shattered glass everywhere. An obvious experiment gone wrong.

He cautiously avoided the ugly pieces of glass as he tried to reach the upturned kitchen; only to find the detective's and doctor's clothes lying on the ground. As if their owners had perished into thin air, leaving only their clothes behind.

This must be a joke; no one can possibly disappear into thin air in a split-second of an explosion.

"Sherlock!" the DI hollered, "Come out. If this is your idea of a joke, I swear it's not even a bit amusing." Silence was all that returned to Lestrade's ears. "Bloody hell, come out already, your nearly scaring Mrs Hudson to death!" Again, no answer is when Lestrade started to mutter a string of curses.

The ever so good DI asked the poor landlady to describe what happened again, because she was the one at the door right after the shattering of glass and when the explosion occurred. Lestrade pats Mrs Hudson on the back, trying to calm her down, because what else can he do while she frets of her tenants' safety? He can't help but to call the rest of the police up to gather evidence of this strange disappearance.

The team searches up and down the flat, only finding random(gruesome) body parts displayed in a variety in hidden areas. Lestrade's team is less enthusiastic than before entering the house; Anderson secretly hopes that the body parts are Sherlock's and the rude detective is actually missing, only to be overheard and then lectured by Lestrade.

"Sir, we've search everywhere. There is absolutely no sign of them," Sergeant Donovan announced wearily.

The detective inspector is not convinced and asks Mrs Hudson for 221C's keys, only to be notified that Anderson had already decided to open that door and found nothing. The DI sends the forensic police a disarming smile, but still not satisfied that the dimwit has not fully learned his lesson. And (Stupid!)Anderson believes Sherlock's the one who messes with the crime scenes and evidence!

Lestrade slumps into John's chair with defeat and noticed that Donovan was ordering the rest of the crew out of 221B. No, there has got to be another clue anything would help the frustrated detective inspector right now who was pondering over Sherlock and John's disappearance.

"Sir?" Donovan asks the detective inspector rather cautiously.

Lestrade answers with a gasp and twists himself out of the chair, running through the door and out into Baker Street leaving the(rather startled) Sergeant behind. He quickly scavenges the boot of his car for a notebook and writing utensil. He snatched out the sketchbook and large permanent marker and ran to the nearest building(with a camera) and pops the cap off and starts writing frantically.

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Mycroft Holmes was just about ready to leave his office to attend a meeting with the-

**NEED YOUR ASSISTANCE.**

**ACCIDENT AT 221B.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN ARE MISSING.**

Lestrade is a bit startled by the ringing of his phone seconds after he just wrote everything down.

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**A/N: This was made from pure writer's block so I don't even think I'll even update.**

**Please review if you wish for more chapters.**


	2. Sleeping With Dust

John glared at the metal spring which was wounded around the potentially life-threatening hammer held inches away from snapping at his soon-to-be prized snack.

The doctor glared at the menacing contraption and back at the flannel-wrapped Holmes.

Why was John calling Sherlock by his surname again? Well, the doctor blames both the mouse trap and _Holmes'_ vast mind palace of selfishness. How was it his fault; normal people don't leave such dangerous hazards on the kitchen table, let alone in the kitchen itself.

Oh wait, of course that's why.

Because Sherlock is not a _normal_ human being and likes to condemn his own mistakes onto his flatmate who was currently (risking his life) trying snatch that little piece of cheese off the mousetrap.

Sometimes John really hates Sherlock, but his own stubbornness gets the better of him and the adrenaline is already coursing through his veins making the latter oblivious.

The retired army doctor waited for the right moment to jump at his cheese(not Sherlock's) because the lazy-arsed detective did not seem to care whether John would get injured. The consulting detective remarked that all men would die one day. Before the soldier got out to punch the git, Sherlock said that he would be very disappointed if his Boswell(er, Blogger) left him all alone.

Sherlock remained hunched over the napkin with a piece of graphite in hand and continued to ignore the doctor, so John decided to grab the food anyway.

It was a marathon and John was going for the grand prize, the golden medal(cheese). The doctor was 15 metres away, 10 metres, and now 5. Before John could reach the (d*mned fourth chaos em-, er I mean) cheese, the doctor did the strangest belly flop to avoid being caught by the sudden intruders that entered the room. The one who just spoke seemed very agitated and was tapping his umbrella as he spoke, oh wait that would be Mycroft.

"Are you sure he was last seen here?" Mycroft asked once again to the DI.

Sherlock's head was already perked up and his brain ready to soak up the whole conversation. John was grumbling to himself, because Sherlock was going to be a git and enter his mind palace and didn't even have the decency to let John borrow the flannel once. Freezing in the flat was not a real option at the moment, especially if you're naked.

Should John take a risk and teach his egoistic flatmate a lesson? Would Lestrade or Mycroft ever hear the consulting duo?

John stalked over to the genius and smacked his flatmate right across the head, earning a yelp that silence their two visitors across the room.

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Mycroft Holmes immediately shut his mouth up when he hard a distinct squeak echo across the room. It seemed to have came from beneath the good doctor's chair.

"Did you hear that too?" Lestrade glanced quizzically at the British Government.

The British Government nodded his head, then both authorities began to advance on the sound range before they were suddenly interrupted by Mrs Hudson's (inconvenient) banging of the door. The detective inspector accidentally tripped at the loud sound and landed in a heap on the floor.

The landlady quickly apologized for her sudden intrusion.

"It's okay Ms Hudson, you just scared me that's all," Lestrade slowly sat up and dusted his trousers. In reality his bum was feeling rather injured, the Detective Inspector grimaced as he stood up. Mycroft turned to the small lady and asked if she had seen or heard any strange noises not long after the explosion.

Ms Hudson shook her head just as Mycroft saw something move at the corner of his eye.

The older Holmes swiftly dropped to his knees and looked under the chair expecting to see something of interest, but he saw nothing beneath the poor piece of furniture. Lestrade had also seen Mycroft do that and did the same.

"Mr Holmes, you don't suppose that you think they are under this floor?"

"Lestrade, you may call me Mycroft. Mrs Hudson I believe that you may have some mice crawling around your floors, I will call over someone to take care of that for you. As of Sherlock..." Mycroft Holmes stood up and contemplated about the whereabouts of his younger brother and his companion.

Lestrade understood that it was rather late and finding both the detective and the doctor at this hour was rather impossible.

As both icons of authority exited the flat, the British Government looked back up at the upstairs window in suspicion and parted ways.

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Out of all curiosity, the consulting detective peeked his head out once more after hearing the voices dissipate; of all things it was getting late.

"John, I need to find the antidote."

"You think?" A huff replied.

"Clearly we both can't bear the feeling of overwhelming idiocy."

Brunet scrambled beneath the abused flannel and waited patiently until he heard the soft snores from his flatmate, the dust settled quietly also.


End file.
